Climbed Not Felled
How conquering anything at all is a reason to celebrate.
The first time I visited Arran, almost three years ago to the day, I found and saw my first ever starfish, a tiny little thing no bigger than a five-pence piece, sitting on top of the scattered, spherical, glass-like pieces of sand that make up the stretch of beach which looks back across to the mainland. I’ve always found it strangely empty, given its close proximity to the ferry terminal, which feeds a decent number of folk on and off the island ferry no matter the time of day or year. I’ve come to learn that you get somewhat used to having your breath taken away when you spend a decent amount of time in the Scottish outdoors and this, while a rather simple find, was one of those moments; a little five-pronged gem that I almost crushed with my clumsy human hands, digging around for much simpler treasures, paying no attention at all.
Running along the length of that same beach, sneaking in and out of the adjoining golf course, is Fisherman’s Walk, a handy little trail that allows you to walk from the ferry, and the town of Brodick, directly to the start of the Goat Fell trail without having to navigate either the sporadic public transport or the road which would add a mile or so on to the hefty slog that follows. Goat Fell itself is a prominent beast of the island, a drawn-from-memory shaped mountain that looms high above Brodick, and is the centre of attention when viewing Arran from the ferry port back across the Firth of Clyde. Three years on from that first visit, and a couple of years on from a failed attempt to climb Arran’s biggest mountain (too hungover; too underprepared), I’m back again, this time on my own, with little planning but a steely determination to stand on top of something far, far greater than myself.
Standing 2,866ft tall, Goat Fell misses out on being a Munro — an infamous collection of mountains that are higher than 3,000ft — by a measly 134ft, less than half a football pitch. It seems somewhat cruel, but those are the rules, and so it remains a Corbett, another collective name for Scottish mountains between 2,500 and 2,999ft, of which there are four on Arran alone, a pretty impressive feat given that you can take a drive around the entire perimeter of the island in a little over two hours.
As I leave the Fisherman’s path behind and enter the woods that sit around the base of Goat Fell I’m still feeling pretty slovenly. To climb the mountain at this time of year you need to get the first ferry of the day, which allows just enough light to get up and back down again at a reasonably sensible pace, which means an early start from Glasgow; though it’s an easier journey than you imagine. Perhaps my favourite thing about Arran is the fact that you can book a relatively cheap train ticket from Glasgow to the island itself, which means the ferry price is also included. Twenty quid to get from a cold tenement building, to a glorious mountain top, and back again. Nae messing aboot. That first ferry of the morning, departing around 9.30am, was remarkably awakening, the cold still burning at my thighs. I did a hasty lap when we first set off, initially smirking to myself at the cowards shacked up indoors, missing the wonder of it all, before I immediately ducked back inside, hurrying to the toilets to put on the thermal leggings my flatmate had convinced me to take along, just in case. The sun was shining brightly and it was two degrees in the sheltered places; the wind, rip-roaring and prevalent, made it much, much colder than that.
Now though, as I needle my way through the woods, fairytale-esque, all dense and wooded and speckled in autumnal sunshine, I am quickly warming. Warm but underprepared, because I decided to do this walk on something of a whim, having been told of — wait for it — glorious Scottish winter sunshine; a timid whisper passed on like a secret to be handled with great care. For once — for the fist time I can remember — the forecast from the night before is staying true to itself, and I’ve barely been going for more than half hour but I’m shedding layers — scarf, gloves, jacket, stuffed in to my bag alongside my flask of tea, a falafel wrap, and some sweet strawberry pencils. My only, trusty, companions for the day. Underprepared.
It’s a relatively steep climb. Google Maps tells me it should take about two hours and twenty minutes from stepping off the ferry (annoyingly it was correct, almost to the minute; though I won the race by two. HAHA) and the majority of the climb involves staring right up at the brilliant peak and beelining for it. The first two-thirds of the walk is a relatively easy path. I have my headphones in and I sing along, stomping the patches of icy path like a child through puddles, breathing in the clean air like it’s a remedy to all of 2017’s many and varied ills; personal, political, and otherwise. It’s the freshest of air and I gorge on it.
Today is a Wednesday and coming during the week means it’s relatively quiet. There are a couple of other walkers out with me and, unintentionally, we take turns in leading the way, our baton a few mumbled pleasantries to the sociable one, a polite nod to the other, less so communicative semi-companion. I often find myself getting fixated on things when solo walking and I become fascinated with the latter of these two pals; the stoney-faced wanderer who plods along, never looking particularly interested, like a teenager on his way to school. I seem to be walking much faster than him, but he never once stops for breath, or the view, or a drink, unlike both myself and the more smily compatriot, choosing instead to carry on, slow and methodically. I’m halfway up a mountain and I’m living through the actual tortoise and hare scenario. I get to the top before him but not by much. He nods politely at the peak, unfazed and barely out of breath.
An hour or so in to the walk, I’m high above Brodick, the town looking beautiful and serene in its small bay way down below, and things are starting to get real. The sun is still out but every now and again a gust of wind rips through the valley and takes my breath away. I’m continuously zipping and unzipping, robing and de-robing, pulling gloves on and off, showing myself up as the novice I am. The snow, compacted and frozen in to big hard chunks of brick-like stature, begins to fill most of the space around me, and the path, easy to follow in the summertime begins to disappear under the precipitous carpet nature has laid on for us today, and instead we all follow the footprints that have, considerately, been left behind by the tiny clambering frames just about visible, already at the peak. In about half an hour’s time I’ll realise that I wouldn’t have made it to the top without them; the Hansel and Gretel I never see nor meet, their bootprints for breadcrumbs.
Affectionately known as “Scotland in miniature”, due to it’s distinct Highlands and Lowlands, which mirrors the form of the mainland, Arran is the seventh biggest island in Scotland, housing a big distillery and, currently, around 5,000 people, with signs of life on the island dating back as far as the 5th or 6th century. A strong centre of religious activity, the once thriving population then depleted vastly during the infamous “clearances” of the 19th century, which saw huge numbers of families evicted from large areas of land, destroying the cultural landscape of many areas, as well as the Gaelic way of life. The last native speakers of Arran Gaelic died in the 1990s. Tourism is now the island’s biggest pull and you pass various wool (not to be mistaken for Aran Wool), pottery, and leather shops, as well as the Arran brewery, and the signpost for the cheese centre, before you’ve even made it to the aforementioned woodland walk.
Save for little glimpses of Brodick castle at the start and end of the walk, however, there are few signs of human existence up on Goat Fell, except for the haphazard pathway, that has now been swallowed by the elements. But those trusty footprints remain, and I follow them up to Goat Fell’s sharp, spine-like ridge; the final, last hurrah that leads to the peak, and is, as I now find out, so much steeper than I had bargained for while I marvelling at it for the previous hour or so. At this point the hefty stroll is now a graceless scramble, big jagged rocks and thick heavy snow working away at my nerves and dexterity. The footprints become harder to trace and, every now and again, I almost leave a leg behind, a sudden soft patch of snow doing its best to swallows me down to the knee. I never feel particularly unsafe but I’m also aware that, as something of a novice, I have no idea of knowing whether that’s the case or not. I take another gulp of air and climb higher again.
About a week prior to today I was talking about winter walking with the same thermal-lending flatmate from before and she told me that most deaths and injuries that occur in Scotland during these months aren’t due to the plummeting temperatures or wild weather but from people mistaking snow for solid ground (I’m sure you can fill in the details there). At least, I think that’s what she told me. Or, at least, this is what my brain convinces me she told me, at the exact moment I find myself, on all fours for balance, staring, neck-craned up at the final — wildly steep — stretch of the ridge, which is now just thick, crunchy, solid snow; no rocks in sight. This has now become my Everest — and I wonder how far out of my depth I am and whether, at this point, that matters or not.
I’m afraid to say, for the sake of the story, that nothing dramatic at all happens. I use my footprint trail as a ladder-like guide and, mostly still on all-fours, I calmly, slowly, with a heck of a lot of effort, climb bear-like to the top of Goat Fell. I have conquered Everest. A couple of hours earlier I was dodging commuters in Glasgow’s Central Station, caught up in the vast stifling nothingness of modernity, auto-piloting through the morning rush. Now I’m wild and free, a tiny pocket of diminishing warmth amid a massive, beautiful expanse of nature.
Like the greatest of trophies, the views afforded to us conquerers are almost entirely hidden from view until you stand at the mountain’s peak. While the expanse of water between Arran and the mainland is a sparkling vista for most of the climb, especially on a day like today, it’s nothing compared to what lies on the other side of the mountain. Using the visual guide, etched in bronze and handily heaved atop this rock, at some discernible point in the past, I’m able to identify Jura’s signature, mountainous humps forty-miles away, the coast of Ireland, further away again, and even the snow-topped peaks of the Trossachs, at the foot of the highlands, back on the mainland and way North; some sixty-odd miles, as the crows fly. It’s beautiful and breathtaking and there’s really no other way to describe it. I sit, in wander, and look at it as intensely as I can.
Not quite so far away, back where I had just come from, Brodick Castle sits hidden in the woodland. A fortress of some kind has sat in that same place since the 5th century, each new build then destroyed or demolished, in all manner of ways, and for varying reasons, only to be put back together again, different bricks on trusty, familiar ground, and still standing tall and proud today. I am never going to be tall, and I’m rarely proud, but in a year of personal struggles, with the sun beaming down and the daylight already fading, I have dragged myself up this hill, baggage and all, and I am standing once more.
The scramble back down is far faster and much more fun than the ascent. I take my dues from a trio of Australians who have joined me, from somewhere, at the peak and, using my backside as a sledge, make light, jubilant work of the steep slope that was my nemesis just fifteen minutes or so earlier. While it would have been nice to spend more time at the peak, drinking in the views, I am conscious of changing weather, cruelly short days, and the temperature drop. The wind rose significantly at the peak, and I take my gloves off for just a couple of minutes; to take a couple of photographs, to unscrew my thermos. They become instantly painful, to the point that I start to worry just a little bit. I put my shiny new flask to good use and dunk my digits in to the warm, milky liquid. I am a young, feeble mammal and don’t I know it.
Retracing my steps the whole way, I arrive back in Brodick as the light begins to disappear. Goat Fell is now directly behind me but I can’t help turning around for a peak almost continuously, its familiar shape glowing bright orange as the rest of the land falls in to crisp, freezing shadow; Arran’s highest point keeping the final rays of sunshine all for itself. It only seems right.
Feeling cumbersome but restored, the ferry pulls away again in new darkness, the large bright moon guiding the way, whether required or not. I fill myself with Calmac Macaroni Cheese, one of the many little pleasures that go hand-in-hand with adventuring, and make my way out on to the deck, which is, unsurprisingly, deserted in the dark cold of the evening. I’ve always loved being on a boat at night, the weird shapes and shadows, the noise of the engine and spraying sea, stirring something wholly exciting in the pit of my stomach. I am a child again, in awe at the lives and workings of adults and their weird giant machines that they work upon. We approach the mainland and I walk to the front of the ship. As I stand there I’m reminded of childhood holidays; me, weary but wide-eyed, sick with tiredness from being dragged out of bed to soon, watching the shipyard and the workers going about their business in the weird half-light. Two burly men hop down the ladder below me, heading to the front deck of the ship to prepare it for docking. Me: gloved, thermal-sealed, scarf-wrapped, and utterly freezing. Them: jackets open, no gloves or hat, throwing ropes and jollities around like they’re relaxing in the warmth of a summer, just another day.
I’m amazed not only by their negation of the elements, but also the work they’re. In a world of weird and wonderful technological advances there’s something awe-inspiring — and completely alien — in what they do. Giant bolts are unscrewed with mighty brawn, levers bigger than me are manhandled in to place, ropes are tossed from ship to land, like it was the most measly of tasks, a couple of loose strands that will pull this huge boat in to place, like it’s really nothing at all. I think about my own loose strands, various troubles that have been flailing around me recently as I navigate my way through choppy waters, and I suppose that I need to find a harbour of my own. I reckon I could get the throw right; I always had quite a good aim for things.
Thankfully there’s a train station at the ferry port, to transport us all directly back to Glasgow, to the real world. Though I’d like to stay away a little longer, I am thickly tired, dragging myself to the platform like a glob of syrup on a spoon. The trains are timed relatively well to coincide with the arrival of the ferries, but we have about half an hour to wait between stepping back on land and the train pulling away. As it’s the end of the line, however, the train is already at the platform, waiting for me, offering a seat, warm and welcoming and away from the bitter night, like perhaps they’re aware that some of us require just a little extra time in the in-between; a deep breath with closed eyes before I fall back in to place, save for the lingering, fierce memory of the day I conquered Everest. Sort of.
